The subjective truth about life, love, and the pursuit of slap-happiness.

04/27/2010

Every Lock That Ain't Locked When No One's Around

My music buddy was in other hands for a day. It was frighteningly unnerving. For those keeping up with me, you know my music buddy is my car. Sure, my car gets me from point A to point B and provides adequate protection from the rain, (and wolves when driving in wooded areas), but mostly it is my four-wheeled reason to partake of my infinite play-list. It's an overpriced .mp3 player, but it also moves and has leather adjustable seats. I love my car. It's not because it's anything to speak of. It's a '98 Nissan Altima. Not really a vehicle that one spit-shines and enters in parades. I love my car because I have swallowed the blue pill and firmly believe that having a vehicle is having freedom. Roll on.

Our family mini-van was in the shop the other day and so I was forced to relinquish the keys to American freedom over to my wife (hi Heather). As she drove off in MY car my countenance fell and I became painfully aware that I was sans-motor vehicle. I do not like this. Heather doesn't like my car near as much as I do. With good reason. It's MY car. It knows me. I know IT. It inflicts embarrassing pain on unsuspecting drivers who don't know it's twelve year old ways:

I know that it locks all four doors with the keys in the ignition without warning. Sometimes while running. Then it mocks me. All activity in or around the car must now be conducted with keys in hand to avoid such ridicule.

I know that the remote key-less entry will lock the doors but not UNlock the doors, and that you have to actually put the key in the door and turn it to the right three times in the perfect 12 o'clock - 3 o'clock positions in order for it to finally unlock itself. I'm serious. I have to do that.

I know that if you pull down the driver's-side sun visor it will end up in your lap because it's only hanging in there by a small wire. I simply don't use it. And consequently I never drive without sunglasses.

I know the sound that the brakes make is probably going to result in a serious need to have the rotors turned. Eye roll.

I know where everything is within my car with my eyes closed. I can grab a drink with my right hand, steer with my left knee, roll down my window with my left hand and wave people to pass me and my flattening tire around a curve, all without the aid of vision.

I know that in order to disengage the car alarm that goes off for no apparent reason when I start the Altima, you have to turn off the ignition, look around and wave at people and say "I know......I know.....happens all the time....." close the driver's side door,put the key in the door and turn it to the right three times in the
perfect 12 o'clock - 3 o'clock positions. I really am NOT kidding. Three times for some reason. The first two times it just locks itself back, as if to say "No no.....I want to FEEL that you want inside the car!"

With all of these seemingly irritating hiccups about my ride, there's something very stifling and restrictive about being somewhere (namely work) without it. I just cannot stand it. I don't know what it is, but I feel trapped. I hate it. I mean what if I needed to get somewhere? Like, say......Pizza Hut? or OUT OF WHERE I AM AT THE MOMENT AND FAST?

I think when I drive. I pray when I drive. I sort out all of my sordid problems while I drive. It is my mobile medium of meditation. There's just something about the ride going vroom and the speakers going boom that soothes me (okay, even I think that is a lame thing to say, but I'm going to leave it there for posterity). I can be in the worst mood ever, and if I can get in my car and drive and listen to some music everything is okay. It may have something to do with claustrophobia. Being restricted inside a building. Ahhh, but to be in the car. You can go anywhere if you have enough gas. Anywhere! All roads are connected by something. I like that feeling. I never do it of course, but the idea of knowing that there's always the possibility that if I had to, I could be in California in a couple of days makes me happy. To know that I can get to Walmart within 5 minutes. That's freedom my friends!

My first car was a 1966 Mustang. Slate gray with a black vinyl top. Black pony interior. Straight six under the hood. I loved that car. No really, I actually LOVED that car. I dreamt about it. I was sixteen, whattaya want from me. My second car was a 1965 candy apple red Mustang with a black vinyl top. 302hp 8-cylinder. Yeah, it was AWESOME. But it had an overheating problem that even a drag racer mechanic couldn't figure out. I had to sell it.

My third car was a truck. Silly little Ford truck. Sold that. Fourth car was a 1981 Honda Civic. I really liked that car. Gave that one away. Fifth car was a Mazda MX-6 Turbo. Blew the engine out of that one. Next car was a Saturn inherited from my wife. I should have never sold that car. Then my next car was the beloved Nissan Altima. My mobile .mp3 player with a payment.

I'm going to drive my current vehicle until the wheels come off. Granted, if it keeps acting up like it does, the wheels may come off as it careens over a cliff after I bail out of it. Stupid locks. They're killin me. Sometimes I do tire of telling every mechanic or oil-change attendant emphatically "DO NOT LEAVE THE KEYS IN THE CAR WITHOUT THE WINDOW ROLLED DOWN."

2 Comments

Patty that's hilarious. Apparently I have a built-in affinity for driving on bald tires. I deplore buying new tires. It's one of the most unsatisfying purchases to me. Of course, now I'm safe and I don't have to literally wrangle the steering wheel to keep it between the lines, but still, $400 for tires. COME ON

Did I ever tell you how much I hate cars? Fat cars, skinny cars, cars that run on wheels. I couldn't tell you the number of cars I have owned because I DON'T CARE.
My husband bought a car LAST NIGHT and I don't have a clue what it really is. I didn't test drive it, nor is my name on the paperwork. (Did I mention that I don't care?)
All I know is the payment. Period. That's all they are to me. Payments and repairs.
(I think men may be attached to cars due to their built-in nostalgia for the back seats........just a guess here.)